Not Waiting
by glass-jars
Summary: There are sort of spoilers technically. {Arose from my desire to write a completely not-romantic fic. Mostly succeeded on that count. Mostly. But not quite. But hey. It's not cute and there's no sex, so that's a success for me.} Doumeki is sick and tired of being patient.


He saw things frightening and wondrous—little beasts he had never dreamed of and the water catching fire in the dusk. He felt like a child seeing the world for the first time...

Was this was Kimihiro felt every day?

Doumeki settled his eyes on Kimihiro wordlessly.

He'd lost a bit of weight, and seemed to fumble much more than usual—even having regained partial sight in the one eye. He smiled widely at Kunogi and scowled at the witch, as always, but it seemed... off.

Forced.

There was an underlying tenseness crackling like electricity to stiffen his movements and glaze over his expressions so they didn't seem genuine.

"Hey, you—"

"_What_?" Kimihiro snapped his head around to fix Doumeki with a glare. "And stop just calling me 'hey you'!"

Doumeki paused. The contrast between electric blue and muddy brown was... unsettling. At least... It was strange on Kimihiro's face. Such a dull eye color didn't suit his energy.

But it was better than the barrenness of his blindness.

"_Well_?"

He didn't mean to do that, all the time—make him wait. He just got swept up in his thoughts sometimes. Although, other times, he did like to test Kimihiro's patience. But that was usually by swiping a treat or calling him names. But often when he fell into silence it was unwitting—getting distracted by the shape of Kimihiro's hands or the color of his hair or the way he looked a little lonely when he thought no one was looking.

"Seconds." Doumeki held out his bowl, which he had practically licked clean. As always.

Kimihiro spluttered at him and took the bowl with a grumbled insult, piling it full of rice, and chicken and egg. Kimihiro's oyakodon... the best oyakodon, of course. Anything Kimihiro made was better than all its counterparts put together, because it was made by him.

He shoved the bowl into Doumeki's hands with a huff, and turned back to Kunogi to beam at her and adore her and treat her as the center of the universe.

Doumeki's mumbled "thanks" went unheeded.

That Ichihara woman eyed him knowingly, and smirked as she downed a shot of whiskey. The gods only knew why she was drinking whiskey at one in the afternoon with oyakodon. She wiggled an eyebrow at him, then, and announced, "Doumeki, may I have a word with you over by that tree?" She was so sudden and loud about the question-that-was-not-a-question that both Kunogi and Kimihiro jumped a bit. Her grin was absolutely feral.

Kimihiro rolled his eyes, hunching his shoulders and resuming his enthusiastic conversation with Kunogi about different types of flour.

Under the tree, Doumeki stood expressionless, arms hanging at his sides, waiting for the strange woman to speak.

She didn't. Only stared at him thoughtfully, her long hair falling down her back blackly.

Eventually Doumeki let out a bored sigh, and said, "Did you need something?"

Yuuko chuckled to herself, giving her head a little shake.

"Shizuka Doumeki, so stoic..." She leaned on the tree, posing provocatively out of habit, he assumed. "So loyal."

"So?" He didn't even twitch.

"You really ought to let him know how you feel." She raised her eyebrows, adjusting her cleavage absentmindedly.

Doumeki almost looked surprised. He crossed his arms. "Sorry, but I don't really have a desire to be punched in the face today." His gaze was steady and dark.

Yuuko's sultry smile faded into something more serious. She straightened up. A drawn-out silence. "I guess not." She frowned at him and returned to the other to beg for more alcohol and generally make herself a nuisance. Maybe she was drunk.

Doumeki elected to stay put.

He could wait.

Not as if they were doing anything interesting.

And it was easier to watch over Kimihiro from a distance.

Anything to help the damn fool.

Doumeki didn't care if he wanted to be helped or not. He would never let Kimihiro bleed to death because of his ridiculous pride and apparent loathing of ever owing Doumeki a favor.

Not that he didn't already owe him his life five times over, at least.

Doumeki stared down at him, a little lightheaded from donating his blood, but nothing he couldn't handle.

Kimihiro lay completely still. Only breathed.

That was more disconcerting than the bandages enveloping his broken body.

Such motionlessness.

Doumeki reached out to touch Kimihiro's hand—the one that wasn't completely mangled from the fall. He barely let his fingers touch Kimihiro's skin, wrapping them loosely around his wrist.

...His wrist was so thin Doumeki could encompass it completely with his forefinger and thumb, and still have several centimeters of space between their skin.

He could feel the fever radiating from him.

Hear the shallow, hoarse breaths.

He wanted to punch the wall, but he was the calm one and should remain the calm one. Reassure Kunogi. Even though she deserved to worry twice as much and feel twice as much guilt.

But Doumeki knew no one felt guiltier than him. It wasn't possible. He knew it wasn't really his fault that Kimihiro had fallen from the window—it was definitely Kunogi's—but he knew in his gut that he should have been able to save Kimihiro from ever falling. He couldn't even fully blame Himawari Kunogi, just like he could never be fully jealous of her, because she made Kimihiro smile and he did not, and he knew that life was what you made it out to be, so any discontent he felt was his own fault.

He squeezed Kimihiro's wrist gently and stood. Left.

He needed to take a walk or something.

Shoot until the bowstring made his fingers bleed whether he wore a guard or not.

How much had Kimihiro changed since they first met?

...immeasurably.

And Doumeki wished he hadn't changed.

Too quiet. Too calm. Drinking just like Her but with none of that overbearing gaiety. Just observing the world with heterochromatic, empty eyes, smoke trailing from his mouth.

Doumeki never saw wondrous or frightening things anymore.

No more otherworldly beasts or beautiful creatures.

Whatever wandered through Kimihiro's vision was either mundane or completely... normal. For him. Or maybe they just weren't there anymore.

Or maybe Kimihiro had just lost his inner child—his sense of wonderment, shock, amazement, and pure joy.

Like an empty shell.

Doumeki hoped he just couldn't see them any longer.

...He didn't even yell when Doumeki dropped a bowl and broke it. Only asked, "When did you start breaking things?"

Doumeki grunted like always and cleaned up his mess.

He'd been distracted lately. Dropping dishes and tripping on steps and bumping into walls.

He couldn't stop staring.

At black hair and faded eyes and flamboyant kimono and white skin and wrists so narrow he almost thought they would snap if he looked at them too hard. Slender neck and smooth jaw and small nose. Glasses catching light from the moon. Flashes of his collarbone or bare calves when the silk shifted.

Despite the fact that Doumeki wanted Kimihiro to return to his loud, irritable, enthusiastic self, he could not deny the man was still the most beautiful person he knew.

Not as beautiful as before.

But still beautiful.

His long eyelashes still drooped the same way when he was tired and emotion still flashed behind his pupils on occasion.

But still...

He missed his friend.

"Doumeki, you're bleeding."

Kimihiro's voice was clear and steady.

Where was the panic...?

Doumeki looked down at his hands, letting the shards of an expensive teacup crumble from between his fingers, slicked with his own blood.

He'd crushed it.

He was having trouble keeping calm lately.

He felt... sick. Sick like he was hungry. Empty stomach and dizzy head.

"Hey, I think I need to leave... for a bit."

Kimihiro was silent, still sitting at the edge of the porch smoking. Couldn't even be bothered to check if Doumeki was going to bleed to death on his deck. He turned his pretty face to look at the grass, decked in dew. He fit the image so well.

Doumeki tangled his hands in the folds of his yukata, not caring if it stained. It was only fabric.

He stared at Kimihiro calmly. "Say something." He truly felt ill.

Watanuki leaned back, closing his eyes. His lashes spread shadows on his cheeks. Eventually. "Go ahead. It's not as if you do anything useful around here."

It wasn't even meant as an insult.

An insult, Doumeki could handle.

But it was just a flat statement.

_I don't need you and I don't care if you're gone or not._

Doumeki closed the door hard enough to crack the frame.

...Doumeki didn't think his patience would hold out.

He'd been patient with Kimihiro since the day he met him in front of the sinks, dripping wet and too captivating.

For years, he'd been patient. Calm, collected, and as condescending as possible without being rude.

But now...

Being patient was difficult when there was nothing to be patient for.

He leaned on a wall.

He'd fix the door for Kimihiro, tomorrow. Whether he wanted to or not, it was basically his job.

He made sure Kimihiro was fed and clean and alive.

He didn't care if the other man noticed or even wanted his twisted affection.

He would take care of that scrawny moron until the day he dropped dead.

Because it was his unspoken duty to watch over Kimihiro the Irrational Fool. Kimihiro the Suddenly too Composed and Poised.

Kimihiro Whom He Couldn't Help But Love.

"How you must hate me..." Kimihiro sprawled across the porch with a glass of sherry in one hand.

Doumeki glanced at him, from where he sat transferring a text from scroll to computer. He closed the laptop and replied, evenly, "No."

Kimihiro looked nearly startled. He blinked. "No? No to what?"

Doumeki turned his head to fasten his heavy-lidded gaze on Kimihiro, annoyed. "Pull your kimono down. I can see your butt."

No overreaction.

Kimihiro only sat up and adjusted his hem. He would've started shouting back when they were still in high school, but now he only rolled his eyes. "No to what?" More emphasis.

Doumeki met his eyes. "No, I do not hate you." He enunciated clearly, daring Kimihiro to twist his words around.

A slight narrowing of the eyes. Kimihiro stood, sneering. "You're a terrible liar."

"Shut up."

Doumeki stared at Kimihiro's bare feet, a few paces away. They twitched as he spoke, toes stiffening.

"Excuse me?" Kimihiro's voice was sharp.

"I said shut up, you dumbass." Doumeki didn't look up. He looked down, turned to the computer and opened it back up to resume his work. He would do the ignoring, rather than be ignored.

"Oh,_ fuck _you.

Doumeki's eyes widened. He didn't dare to turn his eyes upward. He licked his lips and mumbled, tauntingly, "Go ahead."

"You're filthy!"

Kimihiro kicked him in the back of the head—it barely even hurt—and stomped into the empty, spacious house.

Doumeki's thoughts buzzed through his head.

A shout ripped out from inside—furious and broken. "_I can't be patient with you any longer you infuriating, stupid, vulgar, expressionless maniac_!" He heard a cup break in the kitchen sink, and an explosive oath.

Doumeki smirked. He cleared his throat and shouted back, "Sure you don't need help getting undressed tonight?"

A strangled roar. Loud footsteps.

Kimihiro grabbed Doumeki by the collar of his yukata, and hauled him to his feet, forcing his face up so their eyes locked. His were alive with at least five different emotions Doumeki couldn't read.

"I am very sure, you bastard." Kimihiro took a shaky breath. "Stop teasing me and do your stupid job." His voice was low and hissy, his eyebrows furrowed, and his kimono askew.

"...You're bleeding. I'll bandage you up." Doumeki slid from his grasp, grabbing his wrist and dragging him to the bathroom.

His fingers were bandaged up clean and white. He sighed with a small grimace. "We match now." He buried his face in his hands, digging the heels of his palms against his closed eyes. "Ugh, I'm so tired..."

Doumeki reached out, curling his fingers around Kimihiro's wrists and pulling his hands down, away from his face.

"What are you doing?" Kimihiro looked at him, irritated.

"Not waiting."

Doumeki leaned forward and briefly kissed him. Pulled away and met his stare with a smirk.

The next morning he had a black eye.

(And a not-so-empty futon.)


End file.
